Jason and Medeia Page 4

  et cetera …

  I could do it. Oh, I’m no Telamon, no Orpheus; but I’d serve old Kreon better than he dreams. These

  are stupid times,

  intermixed bombast and bullshit whipped to a fine fizz. I may be a better man to ride them out than those I thought my betters once, my glorious Argonauts. I never lullabyed bawling seas with my harp, like soft-eyed Orpheus, or tore down walls with my bare hands like Herakles. But I’ve survived my glittering friends—

  survived

  their finest. Favored by the gods, as they say— Not

  that I asked

  for that. I no more trust the generosity of gods than I do that of men. I’ve seen how they

  twist and turn,

  full of ambiguous promises, sly double dealings.

  They offer

  power, then blast you with a lightning-bolt. Or if gods

  are honest,

  as maybe they are, their honesty’s filtered by priests

  and magicians

  who may or may not be frauds. How can man trust

  anything, then,

  beyond his own poor fallible reason? I keep an eye out, keep my wits. If the gods are with me, good. If not, I stumble on. I play the chancy world like a harp tuned by a half-mad satyr on a foreign isle, finding its secrets out by feel. If the music’s fierce and strange— kinsmen murdered, in my bed a woman from the

  barbarous rim

  of the world—don’t think I pause, draw back from

  the instrument

  in horror, shame. I play on, not lifting an eyebrow, fleeing from resolution to resolution.

  “So now

  I might play Kreon’s lust. —Mine too, Medeia would say. I could smile, ignore her. I’ve bent too much to that

  hurricane.

  Whose work but hers that I find myself where I am?—

  great hero,

  homeless, hopeless, my towering city in chaos, her

  ancient

  winding streets like interlocked serpents afire in

  their own

  dark blood—and I can do nothing, exiled, ruined for

  Medeia—

  ruined despite all my nobly intoned coronation vows. Vows indeed! Ask Trojan Hektor his feeling on vows, forced to defend an old lecher. Ask Hektor’s brother.

  The gods

  themselves pit vow against vow as men pit fighting

  cocks.”

  He paused, rubbing his throat and jaw, relaxing

  muscles

  that seemed to grow more constricted with every word.

  Then:

  “I could still be king there, sharing the throne with a

  dodling uncle

  I never hated, whatever he thought of me. But it wasn’t room enough for the daughter of mighty Aietes, Lord of the Bulls, Keeper of the Golden Fleece. So here

  we are,

  blood on the soles of our feet, heads filled with

  nightmare-visions,

  guilt more chilling than the halls of the dead.

  My friends on the Argo would laugh, in the winds of

  hell, if they heard it.

  “It might be comforting … Kreon’s child. A gentler

  princess,

  as slight, by Medeia, as these hills next to the

  Caucasus. …

  ” He pursed his lips, jaw muscles drawn in the

  semi-dark

  of temple columns, flickering torches; his eyes were

  suddenly

  remote, as if even casual mention of those windy days on strange seas, strange shores, could make them rise

  in his mind

  more real than the quiet night he loomed in now.

  He closed

  his eyes, breathed deep. The blind man bent his head,

  as if

  to listen to Jason’s mind sheared free of words. Jason turned abruptly to look at the palace, then away again. “At one quick stroke I could win not only the throne

  of Corinth—

  huge old city with all its wide, deep-grounded walls— but all my power back home. That’s all they’ve asked

  of me:

  Renounce the witch and her murder of Pelias; abandon

  Medeia,

  and Argos is yours—now Corinth as well. Why not?

  No wife

  at all, a prize of war that I treated too well, a bedslave grown too mighty to be tamed like Theseus’ Amazon. Betrayal, perhaps; but the guilt would be trifling beside

  that guilt

  that brings King Pelias’ ghost back night after night

  to stalk

  my rest—hooded like a cobra, silent, eyes as mad as Argos left without a king. And if I do nothing, what

  then?

  Get up, eat, take a walk, eat, stare out a window, eat again.… Surely, whatever my promises, no mere woman can hold me to that! ‘Stay clear of

  the palace!’

  A law. Who’d dare disobey the great, fierce daughter

  of Aietes?”

  He paused, musing. “There are laws and laws. I told

  my tales

  for Kreon, kind old benefactor. But I’d watch the girl as I told of those terrible battles, curious islands, long

  nights

  rolling in the arms of queens. She had a special blush she saved for me. There were times when she touched

  my arm as if

  by accident. I encouraged it—pressed it. I could no more

  pass up

  a thing like that than I could pass up a cave, an

  unknown city,

  in the old days. It meant nothing, God knows—

  except to Medeia.

  One more conquest. —Winning means more than it

  should to me,

  no doubt. The usual case of the overly reasonable man who’s turned his cheek too often. —And yet I resisted,

  in the end.

  Heaven knows why.” He studied the night. “I make up

  theories.

  I tell myself I resist for Medeia’s sake. Offend the king and our last hope’s gone, we’re wandering

  exiles again.’

  I piously mumble: ‘Beware of wounding Medeia’s pride.’

  “—All the same, whatever the reason,

  I dodged the limetwig, slyly evaded his pretty Pyripta before the old man was aware himself what he planned

  for me.

  So Pelias comes, nights; stands in the shadows like

  a dead tree—

  solemn old ramdike trailing vines, mere daddock at

  the core—

  demanding something—the prince’s head in his hands,

  Akastos

  whom I loved once—loved as I loved myself, I’d have

  said.

  Guilt-raised ghosts.

  “I know, I think, what they want of me.

  Climb back. Redeem your home through Corinth’s

  power. Atone.

  My mind stretches toward it, trembling, and all at once I’m afraid. Beyond old Pelias’ ghost and that severed

  head

  There’s darkness, an abyss. —And yet what is it I fear,

  I wonder?

  Is conquering Jason the slave at last?” He paused, lips

  pursed,

  and glanced at the seer. “The night has a growl of

  winter in it.

  Stars like the flicker of corpse-candles, a sparkle of frost on the bronze lich-gate. Over soon. Grain of the valleys winnowed, garnered … whatever claims we’ve made

  on the season

  silenced, settling in the bin; on the snowed-in storehouse

  walls

  no lamps but dreaming bats. And for those who’ve made

  no claims—”

  Again he paused, reflecting, staring at the ground. At

  last:

  “If I went my way I could make Medeia rich, respected; if not a queen, then mother, at least, of kings—no cost but a night, now and then, alone in her golden bed.


  That would not

  wreck her, I think. In any case, let this chance slip, let some old enemy of ours snatch Kreon’s throne—

  and where are we

  then? This too: If I try and lose, that’s one thing.

  But to let some fat fool win it by default—

  “No, plainer than that.

  She’s an Easterner, and a woman. She reasons with

  her chest, the roots

  of her hair. I should know too well by now where such

  reasoning leads

  —her brother murdered, betrayed to confound Aietes’

  ships;

  my uncle carved, strained, boiled by his daughter’s love;

  and us

  adrift, horrible to men. Late as it is, I should seize my duty as husband and father—the hope that lies in

  Akhaian,

  masculine brains, detached, remote from the violent

  instincts

  of child-bearing and giving suck, what women share with the lioness. I’ve left our destiny too long in witchcraft’s hands.” He paused, glanced at the blind

  Theban.

  “Say what you’re thinking.”

  The blind man sat like stone, the light

  of torches stirring on his cheek. His sunken eyes stared

  out

  at darkness beyond the harbor. “Men come for my help

  in prayer,”

  he said, “or for reading of oracles. What right have I to advise?”

  “But say what you think.”

  The old black Theban sighed,

  continued looking at the night. The end is inevitable,” he said. His eyebrows, silver and thick as frost on rock, drew up, and he groped for Jason’s hand. He found and

  held it.

  “You want no advice from me, and even if you did,

  the end

  is destined. I need no help of signs to see that much, heavy as I am with experience. For seven generations I’ve watched the world’s grim processes. I saw the teeth of the dragon Kadmos slew rise up as fierce armed

  men; I saw that perfect king and his queen

  transmogrified

  when Lord Dionysos—power that turns spilt blood to

  wine,

  unseen master of vineyards—awarded them mast’ry

  of the dead.

  And I’ve seen things darker still, though the god has

  sealed my eyes.

  All I have seen reveals the same: Useless to speak. Well-meaning man—” He frowned, looking into

  darkness. “You may

  see more than you wish of that golden fleece. Good

  night.”

  But Jason

  stayed, questioning. “Say what you mean about the

  fleece. No riddles.”

  “Useless to say,” the blind man sighed. He shook his

  head.

  But Jason clung to his hand, still questioning. “Warn

  me plainly.”

  Again the blind man sighed. “If I were to warn you,

  Jason,

  that what you’ve planned will hiss this land to darkness,

  devour

  the sun and moon, hurl seas and winds off course,

  kill kings—

  would you change your course, confine yourself to your

  room like a sick

  old pirate robbed of his legs?” Jason was silent. The

  black seer

  nodded, frowning, face turned earthward. “There will

  be sorrow.

  I give you the word of a specialist in pains of the soul

  and heart,

  as you will be, soon. Let proud men scoff—as you scoff

  now—

  at the idea of the unalterable. There are, between the world and the mind, conjunctions whose violent

  issue’s more sure

  than sun and rain. So every age of man begins: an idea striking a recalcitrant world as steel strikes flint, each an absolute, intransigent. The collision sparks an uncontrollable, accelerating shock that must arc

  through life

  from end to end until nothing is left but light, and

  silence,

  loveless and calm as the eyes of the sphinx—pure

  knowledge, pure beast.

  Good night, son of Aison.” And so at last Lord Jason

  released

  the black man’s hand and, troubled, turned again to

  the city.

  The white stars hung in the branches above Medeia’s

  room

  like dewdrops trapped in a spiderweb. The garden,

  below,

  was vague, obscured by mist, the leaves and flowers

  so heavy

  it seemed that the night was drugged. Asleep, Medeia

  stirred,

  restless in her bed, and whispered something, her mind

  alarmed

  by dreams. She sucked in breath and turned her face on the pillow. The stars shone full on it: a

  face so soft,

  so gentle and innocent, I caught my breath. She opened

  her eyes

  and stared straight at me, as though she had some faint

  sense of my presence.

  Then she looked off, dismissing me, a harmless

  apparition

  in spectacles, black hat, a queer black overcoat…

  She came to understand, slowly, that she lay alone, and she frowned, thinking—whether of Jason or of her

  recent dream

  I couldn’t guess. She pushed back the cover gently and

  reached

  with beautiful legs to the floor. As if walking in her

  sleep, she moved

  to the window, drawing her robe around her, and

  leaned on the sill,

  gazing, troubled, at the thickening sky. Her lips framed

  words.

  “Raven, raven, come to me:

  Raven, tell me what you see!”

  There was a flutter in the darkness, and then, on the

  sill by her white hand,

  stood a raven with eyes like a mad child’s. He walked

  past her arm

  to peek at me, head cocked, suspicious. And then he too dismissed me. She touched his head with moon-white

  fingertips;

  he opened his blue-black wings. They glinted like coal.

  “Raven,

  speak,” she whispered, touching him softly, brushing

  his crown

  with her lips. He moved away three steps, glanced at

  the moon,

  then at her. He walked on the sill, head tipped, his

  shining wings

  opened a little, like a creature of two minds. Then, in a madhouse voice, his eyes like silver pins, he said:

  “The old wheel wobbles, reels about;

  One lady’s in, one lady’s out.”

  He laughed and would say no more. Medeia’s fists closed. The raven’s wings stretched wide in alarm, and he

  vanished in the night.

  On bare feet then, no candle or torch to light her

  way—

  her eyes on fire, streaming, clutching old violence— Medeia moved like a cold, slow draught from room to

  room,

  fingertips brushing the damp stone walls, her white

  robe trailing,

  light as the touch of a snowflake on dark-tiled floors.

  She came

  to the room where her children slept, In one bed, side

  by side,

  and there she paused. She knelt by the bed and looked

  at them,

  and after a time she reached out gently to touch their

  cheeks,

  first one, then the other, too lightly to change their

  sleep. Her hair

  fell soft, glowing, as soft as the children’s hair. Then—

  tears

  on her cheeks, no sigh, no sound escaping her lips—

  she rose />
  and swiftly returned to her room. The two old slaves

  in the house—

  the man and a woman—stirred restlessly.

  There Jason found her,

  lying silent and pale in the moonlight. He kissed her

  brow,

  too lightly to change her sleep, then quietly undressed

  himself

  and crawled into bed beside her. Half sleeping already,

  he moved

  his dark hand over her waist—her arm moved slightly

  for him—

  and gently cupped her breast. He slept. Medeia’s eyes were open, staring at the wall. They shone like ice,

  as bright

  as raven’s eyes. The garden, sheeted in fog, was still. A cloudshape formed. It stretched dark wings and

  blanketed the moon.

  3

  I was alone, leaning on the tree, shivering. I listened

  to the wind.

  Below the thick, gnarled roots of the oak there was no

  firm ground,

  but a void, a bottomless abyss, and there were voices—

  sounds

  like the voices of leaves, I thought, or the babble of

  children, or gods.

  I made out a shadowy form. The phantom moved toward

  me,

  floating in the dark like a ship. It reached to me,

  touched my hand,

  and the tree became an enormous door whose upper

  reaches

  plunged into space—the ring, the keyhole, the golden

  hinges

  light-years off. Even as I watched the great door grew. I trembled. The surface of the door was wrought from

  end to end

  with dragon shapes, and all around the immense beasts there were smaller dragons, and even the pores of the

  smaller dragons

  were dragons, growing as I watched. Slowly, the door

  swung open.

  I had come to the house of the gods.

  Above the cavern where the dark coiled Father of

  Centuries

  lay bound, groaning, in chains forged by everlasting fire, Zeus sat smiling, serene as the highest of mountaintops, his eyes like an eagle’s, aware of the four directions.

  Beside him—

  stately, magnificent, dreadful to behold—Hera sat,

  draped

  in snakes. Above her lovely head, like a parasol, a cobra flared its hood. It stared with dusty eyes through changing mists. I tightened my grip on my

  guide’s hand.

  “Goddess, porter, whatever you are,” I whispered,

  “shield me!”

  “Be still,” she said. I obeyed, trembling, straightening

  my glasses,

  buttoning up my coat.

  The queen of goddesses

  had beautiful eyes, as benign and warm as the eyes